Catasto: ‘Dolfins do not do things for money.’ Brunetti believed this absolutely. It had been dal Carlo, with his studied uncertainty about whether someone in the Ufficio Catasto would be able to take a bribe, who had set up the system of corruption Rossi had discovered.
What had poor, stupid, fatally honest Rossi done – confronted dal Carlo with his evidence, threatened to denounce him or report him to the police? And had he done it with the door left open to the office of that Cerberus in a twinset, both her hairstyle and her hopeless longing dating back twenty years? And Cappelli? Had his phone calls with Rossi hastened his own death?
He had no doubt that Loredana Dolfin had already coached her brother in what he was to say should he be questioned: after all, she had warned him against going to the hospital. She would not have called it a ‘trap’ unless she had known how he had got that telltale bite on his forearm. And he, poor creature, had been so driven by his fear of infection that he had ignored her warning and had fallen into Brunetti’s trap.
Dolfin had stopped talking just at the time when he began to use the plural. Brunetti was sure of the identity of the second part of that fatal ‘we’, but he knew that, once Loredana’s lawyer got to speak to Giovanni, all chance of filling in that blank would disappear.
Less than an hour later, his phone rang, and he was told that Signorina Dolfin and Awocato Contarini had arrived. He asked that they be shown up to his office.
She came first, led by one of the uniformed officers who stood guard at the front door of the Questura. Behind her trailed Contarini, overweight and always smiling, a man ever able to find the right loophole to ensure that his clients benefited from every technicality of the law.
Brunetti did not offer to shake hands with either of them but turned and led them back into the office. He retreated behind his desk.
Brunetti looked across at Signorina Dolfin, who sat, feet pressed together, back straight as an arrow but not touching the back of her chair, hands neatly folded on top of her purse. She returned his look but remained silent. She looked no different than when he had seen her in her office: efficient, ageing, interested in what was going on but not fully involved in whatever it might be.
‘And what is it you think you’ve discovered about my client?’ Contarini asked, smiling amiably.
‘In a recorded session made here in the Questura this afternoon, he has admitted killing Francesco Rossi, an employee of the Ufficio Catasto where,’ Brunetti said with a bow of his head in her direction, ‘Signorina Dolfin works as a secretary.’
Contarini seemed uninterested. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘He also said that he later went back to the same place in the company of a man called Gino Zecchino, and together they destroyed the evidence of his crime. Further, he said that Zecchino subsequently attempted to blackmail him.’ So far nothing Brunetti said seemed to be of much interest to either of the two people across from him. ‘Zecchino was later found murdered in that same building, as was a young woman who still remains unidentified.’
When he judged that Brunetti had finished, Contarini pulled his briefcase up on to his lap and opened it. He sorted through papers and Brunetti felt the hairs on his arms rise when he realized how similar his fussy actions were to those of Rossi. With a little snort of pleasure, Contarini found the paper he was looking for and pulled it out. He extended it across the desk towards Brunetti, ‘As you can see, Commissario,’ he said, pointing to the seal at the top of the paper but not letting go of it, ‘this is a certificate from the Ministry of Health, dated more than ten years ago.’ He pulled his chair closer to the desk. When he was sure that Brunetti’s attention was directed at the paper, he continued, ‘which declares that Giovanni Dolfin is…’ and paused, gracing Brunetti with yet another smile, a shark preparing to get down to business.
Though it was upside down, he began to read the text out slowly to Brunetti: ‘ “a person with special needs who is to receive special preference in obtaining employment and is never to be discriminated against because of any inability to perform tasks beyond his powers.” ‘
He moved a finger down the paper until it pointed to the last paragraph, which he read out, as well. “’The person above named, Giovanni Dolfin, is declared not to be in complete possession of his intellectual faculties and hence is not to be subjected to the full rigour of the law.” ‘
Contarini let go of the paper and watched it flutter quietly to the surface of Brunetti’s desk. Smiling still, he said, ‘That’s a copy. For your files. I assume you’re familiar with such documents, Commissario?’
Brunetti’s family were passionate Monopoly players, and here it was to the life: a Get Out of Gaol Free card.
Contarini closed his briefcase and got to his feet. ‘I’d like to see my client, if that’s possible.’
‘Of course,’ Brunetti said, reaching for his phone.
The three of them sat in silence until Pucetti knocked at the door.
‘Officer Pucetti,’ Brunetti said, touched to see that the young man was out of breath, having run up the stairs in answer to Brunetti’s summons, ‘please take Avvocato Contarini down to room seven to see his client.’
Pucetti snapped a salute. Contarini got to his feet and looked enquiringly at Signorina Dolfin, but she shook her head and remained where she was. Contarini said polite things and left, smiling all the way.
When he was gone, Brunetti, who had stood up at Contarini’s departure, sat down again and looked across at Signorina Dolfin. He said nothing.
Minutes passed until finally she said, in an entirely ordinary voice, ‘There’s nothing you can do to him, you know. He’s protected by the state.’
Brunetti was determined to remain silent and curious to see how far this would drive her. He did nothing at all, didn’t move objects around on his desk or put his hands together: he simply sat, looking across at her with a neutral expression.
A few more minutes passed, and then she asked, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘You’ve just told me, Signorina,’ he conceded.
Like two sepulchral statues they sat, until at last she said, ‘That’s not what I mean.’ She glanced away and out the window of his office, then back at Brunetti, ‘Not to my brother. I want to know what you’re going to do to him.’ For the first time, he saw emotion on her face.
Brunetti had no interest in playing with her, so he did not feign misunderstanding. ‘You mean dal Carlo?’ he asked, not bothering with a title.
She nodded.
Brunetti weighed it all, and not a little part of it was the realization of what might happen to his home if the Ufficio Catasto were forced into honesty. ‘I’m going to feed him to the wolves,’ Brunetti said, glad to say it.
Her eyes shot wide in astonishment. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m going to give him to the Guardia di Finanza. They’ll be delighted to get records of his bank accounts, the apartments he owns, the accounts where his wife…’ he said that word with special relish, ‘has money invested. And once they begin to ask around and offer immunity to anyone who has given him a bribe, they will let loose an avalanche, and he will be buried under it.’
‘He’ll lose his job,’ she said.
‘He’ll lose everything,’ Brunetti corrected her and forced himself to give a joyless little smile.
Stunned at the sight of his malice, she sat with mouth agape.
‘Do you want more?’ he asked, driven beyond himself by the realization that, no matter what happened to dal Carlo, he could never do anything to her or to her brother. The Volpatos would remain like vultures in Campo San Luca, and all chance of finding Marco’s killer was lost by the printed lies that had removed Patta’s son from danger.
Knowing she had no responsibility for the last but still wild with the desire that she be made to pay, he continued, ‘The newspapers will put it all together: Rossi’s death, a suspect with bite marks made by the murdered girl ruled out because he’s been declared mentally incompetent by the court, and the possible involvement of dal Carlo’s secretary, an older woman,
